All For Naught

 

I've decided it's true.

No good deed goes unpunished.

But that it's punished without question

says more about the accuser than the accused.

And the older I get the more unkind I realize people are.

Choose whatever you want to believe.

But remember. It is the belief that defines you, not the

actions of an innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The world will go on, spinning into eternity, and it will all amount to nothing.

Put one foot in front of the other and live your life as if you still believe in humanity.

A hundred years from now, we will be nothing more than stones with dates set in the dirt for the few who will remember.

After that, let the archaeologists dig us up and wonder who we were and what marks we left.

With any luck at all, there won't be a mark to be found.

~ April 2, 2022

Gone with the Wind

 Waiting for Ida to hit.  It's supposed to be the strongest hurricane to hit New Orleans in centuries.  And it's on the 16th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.  This is what happened at my house last year during Hurricane Laura, which wasn't nearly as bad.

Well over $100 thousand dollars worth of damage and six months living at the B&B.  Here's the tree that fell and, unfortunately, there's an even larger one right next to it.  Both in my neighbor's yard.

Hold on to your hats, folks.  It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

The Train Station

I'm going to post this, even thought it's not finished and I'm still not sure of all the facts.  But I need to post.

It was a dreary day in 1871 when Anne Gilbert Snyder Munger accompanied her husband, Henry Elias Munger, to the railroad station in Alton, Illinois.  After a tumultuous six years of marriage, Henry left her and her three children, and fled to Texas.  It was the last time she would ever see him, another casualty of the War Between the States.  Anne was a devout Catholic, so divorce was out of the question.

Munger graduated from Union College in Schenectady, New York as a sergeant, 1st lt., Company A. in 1861,   He returned home two years later with the 18th New York Infantry as a company commander, and acting adjutant.  

As a civilian after the war, Munger went to work for the commissary department in Illinois.  On November13, 1865, he married Anne Gilbert Snyder.  Henry and Anne had three children ⏤ their eldest  a daughter, Anne Lucy, followed by  two sons, Henry and Carlton. Henry Elias moved his family numerous times in search of railway jobs, which he quickly lost due to his drinking.  

While living in Hannibal, Anne could take no more of his drinking, took the children and left him.  That day at the train station, he was so drunk, she was nearly paralyzed with fear that he would collapse on a train track and be run over.  But she watched him totter onto a train headed for Texas.   Finally, she turned around and without looking back, returned home to collect her things and moved with her daughter, Anne Lucy, to be closer to family. 

After Henry Elias’ departure, his brothers, William and Lyman took the boys in, cared for them and educated them. Anne and her daughter then moved to Alton, Illinois in order for her to be closer to her family. One of her boys, Henry Snyder, lived with Lyman and Carlton lived with William. She never saw Henry again. 

Around 1885 while on a round trip cruise from St. Louis, Anne Lucy met Anchor Steam Lines purser, William Howard Pritchartt.  Pritchartt had fallen in love with the City of Natchez, Mississippi, and bought two lots on the tall bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, married Anne Lucy, built a home and raised a family there.  Around 1910, Anne Snyder Munger moved to Natchez to live with her daughter and their family.

To be fair, Munger probably suffered from PTSD. The Civil War was anything but civil, and he'd been in skirmishes and seen things that no one should have to see.  He started out as a fresh-faced young man with fair skin and an open, friendly, handsome face.

According to a passage from The18th New York Infantry in the Civil War:  A History and a Roster by Ryan A. Conklin, McFarland & Co., Inc., Publishers, 2016, Munger landed in Texas and became a vagabond, wandering all over the state looking for work.  He continued to drink and was described by saloon regulars as "ugly and quarrelsome" when drunk.  His last known whereabouts was in Beaumont, TX in 1901, where he failed to pick up his last pension check.  It was assumed that he had died, but how is not known.  His grave can be found in Lufkin, Texas in a pauper's cemetery called Strangers' Rest Cemetery where a small stone plaque  displays the names of known burials from early records.  On that plaque one can find the name, Harry E. Munger.

It took many years of going to the Congressional Library to find when he had died before she was finally able to get her "widder's mite,"  veterans' benefits for the widows of those who'd served.

For pictures of and stories about the house on the bluff, see https://shantybellum.blogspot.com/2011/09/long-farewell.html

Upon arriving in Natchez, Anne had two or three possessions that were valuable.  She was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln, and, as such, had received a handwritten invitation to his inauguration.  Lincoln was one of those rare people, especially in such early days, to be a celebrity in his own time, and anything signed or written by him was worth its weight in gold.  Lincoln had written to her to personally invite her to his inauguration, which she dutifully kept, but later lost.  She was known as a terrible housekeeper and may have simply thrown it away accidentally. We looked in places she might've hidden the invitation to prevent theft, and upon taking the back off of the following photo, was excited to see a partial address on Pennsylvania Avenue.  It did not turn out to be the lost invitation; however, we discovered it is an original Matthew Brady photo, whose studio was on Pennsylvania Avenue.

H.S. Munger by Matthew Brady

H.S. Diary

She had her husband's Civil-War journal and a large book of paintings of American Indians, which she later sold.

She also had in her possession her brother's (Joseph Baker) naval commission, which he received in 1861, after having enlisted without his father's knowledge or permission.  

He was appointed in June, 1861, as lieutenant in the Marine Corps.  The commission, which is still extant, was signed by Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy and Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

He commanded the marine detachment that served the quarterdeck pivot gun on board the U.S.S. Congress during the historic battle at Hampton Roads in March, 1862.  The Confederates had seized the Union's ironclad, Merrimac, and sank the wooden Union ships Congress and Cumberland,  making wooden fighting ships forever obsolete.  He escaped the sinking Congress, however, and was described by a correspondent for the New York Herald thusly:  

"This young officer was twenty-one years of age on the evening before the battle, and is said to have conducted himself with unusual bravery and coolness."

Baker had also fought in the first battle of Bull Run, in which he was badly wounded and carried off the battlefield by his brother, John Pope Baker, who was a Cavalry officer.  He served through the war and rose to the rank of captain.  He was found dead in his quarters at the Marine Barracks, Boston Naval Yard, October 2, 1876, from the effects of Yellow Fever contracted during the war.

Haunted by Love

 I moved home because home was kind.

And I am home surrounded by all the things my ancestors held dear.

It is my job to hold them dear.  To keep them for the next generation.

But all day they talk to me, my ancestors.  They tell me to remember

the smell of melba toast in the oven.  The smell of freshly made apple sauce

poured on top.  A smell I will never know again 

in a house no longer ours, but whose every creak and crevice is as 

familiar as my own hand.

They scold me for letting things slide on days when I just cannot make

the bed, cannot even leave it.  Do that dish in the sink, remembering Annet 

pouring boiling water over all the dishes once she'd finished washing, 

the smell of her rubber gloves filling the kitchen.

Daddy's barn burned this winter during the ice storm.  A tragic, terrible

mistake made with the best intentions to keep the horses warm.  They died.  Children's pets.

The barn still had old toys I had left upstairs, confident I could go out and

see them once more.  I want to tell Daddy the story of our great, great uncle 

Robert, who slit his throat.  He never knew.  But Daddy died and it was too late to tell.

I want to tell him of Henry Munger, who disappeared and was never seen again.

He was a mystery for generations.

I found out where he died and where he's buried, alone in a plot in Beaumont.

But I learned too late.  How Great Uncle Alexander drank a bottle of carbolic acid when the head 

injury he suffered proved too much to bear.  Daddy knew none of these things and he

was ancient.  He should've known.

When Tommy Lu died and Daddy was bent with grief, I saw a taxidermied 

chicken in an antique store.  Daddy loved chickens almost more than anything.  

So I bought the creature.  Daddy kept it in the kitchen..

Today I pulled it down and dusted 8 years of dust from its feathers.  And wanted to show him.

See?  I kept it.  For you.  For love.

These ghosts are with me always.  Always.  They never leave and I would be sad to see

them go.  But they break my heart every day.  For love.  With whispers.

Waves

 The years rush in like waves. 

They deposit living things, gasping

for air and empty shells 

left to the elements —  for calamity

 or discovery — 

then suck back again, taking memories

 and friends and loved ones 

like sand, each pebble tugged and tossed, 

polished and lost 

on an infinite sea of time.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

01/25/21

Conflagration

 

Conflagration

It rained yesterday. Strange.

I thought it would clean the air

but it smells more like ash than it did

before.

No scorched earth, I begged. Let’s

do this right. For once, do something right.

And so far, it’s worked. But

last night you showed your hand,

just a little. And I realized this

fragile peace hinges on my willingness to pay.

I slept uneasy. I’m so close. It’s

nearly done. Hang on. But when I

look out the window, I can’t

tell if it’s sunrise or fire

coming over the ridge

to light the way

or destroy us.

We’re officially a disaster.

Our home. This marriage.

And the world looks on

like rubbernecking drivers

on a crowded freeway.

They talk of mopping up the mess.

Starting fresh. But the air still smells

like smoke. Like a dragon sleeping

in its cave, waiting.

The rain doesn’t wash it all away.

Just brings it to the door.

November, 2007

29Joe Collins, Jessica Fleming Crawford and 27 others

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Passion Play

"Their souls entwined," the poem read,

and to the azure skies they sped.

A poem's no good unless it's spent

on passion, pain and lovers rent

from others' arms before its time,

all penned in verse, both free and rhyme.

I don't remember poems like this

in English class, all filled with bliss.

Our poems were writ on roads and mice

all forked and timorous (and filled with lice).

These sexy poems are more my ken

all wet and slippery, skin to skin.

Where brown is never brown, but bouillion

and blue is nothing if not cerulean.

And life is heightened by degree.

All senses more... sensitivity?

So you touch me and I'll touch you,

And 'ere you know it we're all through.

And smoking cigarettes and spent.

If only poems could pay the rent.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

First poem I ever wrote, circa 1994

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Suicide Note

 So.  Time for bed.

Two Xanaxes, three Unisoms and

almost a fifth of Maker's Mark

will guarantee 

a dreamless, thoughtless sleep.

If I don't happen to wake tomorrow,

please know that it's okay.

I wasn't that thrilled with 

waking anyway.

I didn't do it on purpose 

but I didn't do it by accident

either.

Just know that I really did

love you so much more

than you realized,

and I'm really, really sorry 

for the pain I've caused.

I'm so, so sorry.

Go.  Live your life.

Grab every taste of it.

And know that I am here

where I want to be

in the good times 

of your memory.

I love you.  

I do.

But I couldn't love you enough

to keep living in such

a painful place.

And who's to say we won't see each other in 

the ever after where

all is forgiven and all is forgotten?

Editor's Note:  Please don't take this as an actual suicide note.  It's not.  I have no plan to end my existence on this mortal coil. But it HAS occurred to me on more than one occasion.  It does run in the family.  I just want to put this out into the universe in case something should happen and I can't take it back.  It's in my genes.  And it is the ultimate end.  I will never see any of you again, although I hope that you remember that I loved you more than I can say.

In the meantime, I'll see you tomorrow.

Catfish, 1976

 Okay, so....I can't remember if I've told y'all this. Or if I SHOULD tell y'all this. But....

Way back when I was at Ole Miss I lived in the Roundhouse Apartments. They were these one- and two-story apartments that were round. The nicest thing about them was that they were situated in a beautiful, wooded area close to campus.

I and my two roommates had the incredible luck of getting a one-story roundhouse in the very back of the development, nestled right in the woods.

At night when the weather was nice, I would open my window to sleep among the sounds of the night creatures. Every morning, I would wake up to find about four or five feral cats in bed with me. The minute I moved, they'd freak out and jump back out the window, never to be seen again until the next morning when it would happen all over again.

Anyway, one day a really sweet ginger tabby showed up with a collar. I started feeding it and petting it and letting it make itself at home. Then he'd disappear for a day or two. One day, he returned and I noticed something wrapped around his collar. It was a note:

In a very sweet, rounded, female hand, it said, "Whoever is taking care of my kitty, thank you so much. I would love to meet you." She dotted her i's with little hearts. It was so cute.

So, naturally, being the evil, wicked person I am, I wrote a note back, and wrapped it around his collar. In very masculine, blocky, all-caps writing, I wrote. "Yeah. Hey. I've been taking care of your cat. He's cool.'

We went back and forth, she wanting to get to know me better, and I telling her I was ex-Marine and working my way through school. Needless to say, the notes got kinda personal.

Then one night, little long-haired, blonde feminine me was at a party and started talking to some girl who informed me she lived at the roundhouse apartments. I can't remember how, but she told me about this ginger cat she had.

After awhile, I figured it out and told her I was the ex-Marine who'd been taking care of her cat. Then I started giggling uncontrollably.

You never saw such a hissy fit in your life! It was like Catfish before the internet. Now, I don't know if that makes me evil or just funny, but I thought it was hilarious. I couldn't understand why she didn't think it was as funny as I did.

So. Whatever. Be careful with your cat. That's all I can say. I still miss that little ginger bastard.

Time to Go

Everything dies,

Even you. 

But he knew 

he only had to touch

one, anyone, to send it 

away. To make it

die.

It's what he did

as though it couldn't

be helped.

It was written

in his DNA.

Twisted lines of 

data, always

twisting more, the more

he cared.

The world burns,  

Hate. Anger.

Grief.

His own light

is growing dim.

He longs for

release but

too stubborn to

recognize when

it's time to say goodbye.

So it twists 

and in its twisting

wishes for a 

better place

to be.

Meanwhile

There is sleep.

~ September 17, 2020

Everyday Tragedies

 Effortless,

they smile,
they laugh, They talk.

Something breaks.
The dam crumbles.

The truth pours out.

Tears. Everyday tragedies.

Still they laugh.

Still they smile.

So easy to ignore.
So hard to forget.

How long
will it take
For pain to right itself?

For others to forget?

Sleep.

Sleep until the silence
Contains it all,

until all is right in

your sleep world

Every tragedy
is just another day.

~ Sept 14, 2016

A Dog's Life

If I had my druthers, I'd like to come back as my dog in my next life. I've never seen anyone so eager to get a bite to eat. When it's dinnertime, she tells me by dancing around the room singing, "Woo-woo! Woo-Woo!"

Oh, to be able to eat with such joy and abandon, making little grunting sounds and licking the plate clean. She just finished my breakfast burrito, devouring the whole thing while expertly managing to leave the jalapeños, then climbing up onto the sofa to say thank you while bathing the air with  unembarrassed poots containing the unfiltered stink of happiness.

Every bite I eat is fraught with guilt. I wear clothes designed to disguise the evidence of my appetite while she waggles her little fat bottom proudly and happily.

What a life that would be. What a world.

Unbearable Happiness

So here we are, all cozy warm
and wrapped in secret dread
that this might work
and now instead
of rejection's shiny hook
on which to hang our failed
potential we must face
the possibility that this
isn't what we wanted, after all.

Happiness, that angry bear
stomps down the hall to maul
our expectations, fling our
sorry asses out the door
and make us look at what
we've done and haven't done before.

It's not too late to muck this up
if angst is what you crave.
Just save yourself and run.
The bear has only just begun
to tear your shattered life.
The wives who left you
crying on the floor can
stay, replay your failures one by one
and give you what you need.

Just say the word, I'll bleed,
but tell me now before
I've bled too much. My life
is such a clean, blank page.
Come help me fill it, if you want.
I'm here; I'm near, but time
is running short.

And bears are wild things,
quick and fleet, can disappear
before you've glimpsed
them, hairy, hoary, clumsy, big
and scary like first days of school.

They learn to dance between
the aisles and listen for the bees,
delicate and fragile in their way.
Just say if this is what you want
and I will watch the bees.
The bear is yours today.

13 Jan 08

Aye Dee Dee

That moment when Boyfriend asks what I did with the doggie treats.

Me: (yelling from the other room) They're on the counter!

Boyfriend: What counter?

Me: The peninsula! The long counter!

Boyfriend: No, they're not! Where are they?

Me: Heavy sigh. (mumbling to myself) Men. They think the uterus is a homing device. Dragging myself out of bed at the crack of 10:45 to go show him. They're right...where are they? I just had them a minute ago.

Boyfriend: (Handing me a cup of coffee.) See?

Me (looking all over the house) Well, this is the mystery of of the century.

Boyfriend: Goodbye. I'm going out.

Me: Bring me some breakfast from the Mexican place?

Boyfriend: No! I go there on Sunday.

Me: Pleeeeeease???

Boyfriend: No!

Me: Pleeeeeease???

Boyfriend: No! There's nothing you can say that will make me go there.

Me: Pleeeeeease???

Boyfriend: Dammit, Dee!

Me: Don't forget to tell them no jalopeños.

Boyfriend: Sigh. Bye.

Me: I open the silverware drawer. The dog treats. I put the dog treats in the silverware drawer. Forgot to take my ADHD meds this morning.

Still Life

"Envy" by Kevin Brodeur, 2019, Natchez, Mississippi.  

Kevin said about his painting:  "It was that moment I looked at my green Envy Zinnias and my pink Zinnias, and they became one."

Sacagawea Shapiro

I have this friend who's one of the funniest people I know. Here's an example: We were visiting at The Eola Hotel one night and she's talking about this guy she knows.

Rachel: Well, you know, he's, like, really cool. He's a marine or navy seal or something and he actually killed Saddam Hussein's accountant.

Me:

Rachel:

Me: He killed who?

Rachel: Saddam Hussein's accountant.

Julie the Bartender: What was he doing? Crunching the numbers or something?

Me: I mean, yeah. How dangerous can an accountant be? Did he take away his calculator or something?

Rachel: Well, I dunno. But he was SADAM HUSSEIN'S accountant... 

Me:

Rachel...And I feel really bad about shooting him (the guy who shot Saddam Hussein's accountant) that one time.

Tommy: You SHOT him??

Me: You SHOT him? Where??

Rachel: In the back Forty. The pasture.

Me:

Rachel: Well, we were bird hunting and there was this low-flying bird just over a hill.

Tommy: You mean you Dick Cheney'd him?

Rachel: Yeah.

The whole night was like that. She's part Indian and part jewish. I mean, she could be a jewish Indian princess. We decided she should do a standup routine and call herself Sacagawea Shapiro.

Waiting for Release

In the Dark

He lies
in the gloom and wastes
and waits.
He is tired.

He dreams
of the time before.

The moon clings to clouds.
The dogs sing
to the unburdened air.

In the dream he lifts his son
to the sky
settles him on a red horse,
offers it a sweet.

He wakes --
the vision of his baby
laughing,
tangled in the mane
of a wild thing,
blood
spit
tears.

~Elodie Pritchartt

Natchez Walkabout